Sunday, August 26, 2007

Californian colitas and…. guitars.

How they dance in the courtyard;
Sweet summer sweat
Some dance to remember
Some dance to forget.

One who has heard it knows how sweet the summer sweat is. Summer sweat! Sweet only in the courtyard. Only when you dance. And only if you dance to forget. Dance to remember and you know the summer is not summer, the sweat is not sweet.

How tempting it is. Isn’t it? The devil’s path. It’s just so tempting like the dancing beauties in courtyard. Pink champagne and ceilings made of mirrors and all that. All, all that.

Fresh, bright, thick, rust smelling blood on the mind. And yummy cuts on the flesh. Melting ice and sultry night. Vacant hotel rooms and cigarette smelling couches. Long canines and soft lips. Mysterious eyes and wet hair. A lot of them. Prayers or whispers? But many!

So very tempting. All, all that. Isn’t it? I would never bother to even check-out.

Would you?

Thursday, August 23, 2007

Damned Birth

A cursed moment. The birth of a soul in the womb. A deliberate try without capsules.

Curses soon change into prayers. Prayers for forgiveness. To the far away Gods in the land of temples and coconut palms. I wonder did ever the two souls know that Hindu gods do not forgive. Flesh & senses enveloped the new born soul. A punishment that couldn’t be stopped. Like fate! Like life! Like everything else we think of!

She paced through 5 months of guilt and 4 months of hatred. Guilt for the mistake and hatred for the gender of the growing foetus.

It was clear that it rained that day, where the Gods celebrated. The day that inexplicable pain clutched her muscles. She cursed once again for the last time.

Following a lengthy attempt to push the pest out of herself, the bloody child fell into a filth called world. All ignored and yet healthy.

It rained heavier there, making the soil sink in contentment. There where celebration was at its peak. Immeasurable happiness that existed in the same soil. Only in that same soil. All lush & welcoming. The Gods too.

I was born!

Blessed by god. Cursed by all.

Tuesday, August 21, 2007

Tuesday stinginess

She once asked me why I had been stingy on words. I smiled the very moment. I thought of her face I had never seen. Never means never.

“If all the words were mine.......” There I was! OMG six of my words in one go.

And then I saw an unconvinced look in her eyes. The eyes I had never seen. Never means……never. Ah! They made me smile. Smile the more.

I wish words were mine. I perhaps would have not been stingy then. And maybe then she would have never complained.

People share love. She says. I agree. People easily share lust. She says. I don’t agree. If at all sharing intimate emotions were easy world would have been a place with the no different people.

And so my thoughts come in words. The words I count before giving away. The thoughts I treasure even after giving away. The words I like to think are only mine. I just like to maybe it is not. ‘Maybe’ a word I know will always be mine. For my very own reasons.

But I shall share my words a little more with all who finds little pleasures in my little world.

All a little more......

Saturday, August 18, 2007

One out of many

A mid May rainy day. A big cloud lonely in the dark sky of the morning alone like me, amid unfamiliar relatives. Heavy with tears and heavy with all.

A hazy KSRTC trip on the wet, uneven roads; through the lively cities; through the coldness of time, I traveled with the open window beside me. The tiny buds of jasmine and wet soil. A fragrant combination of temple & home. The half burnt wood in the traditional stove and cry of dirty crows. A common combination of kitchen verandah & the nearby beach. Dreamy thoughts & a constant sprinkle of rain on the face to wake up in middle of the rich teak estates.

Life I wish just halted. A moment I cherished for a very, very long period. Perhaps a long period till today and if tomorrow then till tomorrow and then again.

An equally aching head and back- the bumping last row seats of a red and beige old bus. Remember the roads and the rain? A creamy coffee for the head and two seats to the front for the back. The stop at the stand for a change. A stand that changes many. As many as I could imagine with messy hair, shabby clothes, no snacks, no water, no magazines. Only tired muscles and sleepy eyes.

The never ending highway to Mysore. The start of elevation-the mountains-the destination. Roaring group of young bikes & colorful kerchiefs on head. A thrilling combination of boiling energy & teenage trends.

And so and so…And this and that…and off course a lot of it too...

The journey was never to end for it was a start that I never want to end. And then…

the rain never stopped…

Wednesday, August 01, 2007

Day or was it night

For some particular reason that early weekend conversation started at the coffee table in my kitchen. Kitchen is mine for some reason.

Something kept drumming on the air condition that didn’t let me sleep throughout the night. Lazy yet I wanted to find out what was happening outside the four walls of ‘our’ bedroom. Bedroom is not mine for an obvious reason. Neither the moon nor the sun was bright enough to show me the way to my kitchen. A rare time of the day or was it night. I like to see the world outside only through the windows of my kitchen. I was there then.

He walked up to me and demanded a cup of his favorite chocolate drink. It wasn’t late enough for the morning freshens which he was particular. He sat on the table looking at me in wonder.

I stood gazing through the window to some point between the trees on the other side of the road. Yes, there exists a forest – Green belt forest in middle of the desert. It was stormy outside as I could see the trees kissed each other with the rhythm of wind. A dusty, dry, desert wind. I felt the dryness in my eyes, the dust in my hair and the desert in my heart.

“Dreaming are you?”

I wanted to reply to it in many ways. Choosing became difficult and he ran over.

“What are you looking at?”

Knowing how he would react I described what I saw through the window-A silly me.

“And you think you are creative.” (The loving sarcastic he)

No! I think I can speak my thoughts well; I wished I only said that.

“You want the drink hot or cold?” was all I managed.